My typical winter’s morning in Tibet: my watch is tucked under my hat so I can hear the alarm which wakes me with a groan. The sun hasn’t yet risen but it is light enough to see in the tent without a torch. I stare with resignation at the glistening few millimetres of frost that have formed on the tent’s inner sheet. Vainly, I try to avoid knocking it off while wrestling with the three drawstrings and two zips that lock me tightly inside my two sleeping bags. I retrieve the warm pair of gloves from the crotch of my thermal leggings and put them on.

A typical campsite in the mountains

I remove the now cold bottle of urine from the foot of my sleeping bag where it briefly warmed my feet the previous night as well as saving me an outdoor excursion before going to bed. I don my bulky goose down jacket which has passed the night zipped around the end of my sleeping bag like a large thermal condom with arms. Despite these measures, I can’t feel my toes and rub them unfeelingly together to prove this fact to myself; a futile daily exercise in frustration.Behind a temperamental zip, in the tent porch, my breakfast is laid out, ready to be cooked. A cooking pot containing a solid block of ice (the broth from last night’s meal of instant noodles; a fork imprisoned in the murky freeze) sits atop an unlit cooker. Beside it lies a squashed packet of instant noodles. I have learnt the painful way not to touch bare skin to any of the metal surfaces and remind myself of this while fiddling with the cooker which refuses to work efficiently above 4,500m in altitude (despite being made by MSR: Mountain Safety Research).I eat quickly, greedily and noisily. There is likely no one within a ten mile radius to reprimand me. I slurp the down the broth, finger the sand-like residue into my mouth and lick the fork clean.I am already fully dressed except for replacing my two pairs of ‘tent socks’ with three pairs of moisture-stiffened ‘day socks’ on which I have slept to prevent from freezing solid. The night temperatures here drop to -40°C. With rapidly numbing fingers I pack up sleeping bags and mat, all the while wandering just why I am here. It is so cold, the mornings are so unpleasant and this is certainly no holiday. A minute later I yank on a chilled pair of wellies and crawl outside. The air is so cold that it almost feels liquid as is gushes into my lungs. With a daily epiphany I soon remember why I am here. My purpose strikes me anew with resounding force after just a few seconds spent surveying my surroundings. They are invariably awe-inspiring, trip-affirming and dwarfing. This is what I came for. ‘Old Geoff’ (my bike) lies steadfastly on his side neglected to the winter night and sometimes with a dusting of clinically white snow covering his rusted and scratched frame. His surroundings may be why I am here; he is how I am here. Here, amongst these numerous mountains in this bewitchingly barren land. * * *

My family hiking near Pokhara, Nepal

Christmas came to Nepal, and so did my family. We enjoyed a wonderful week of catching up and quality time while spotting leopards in Chitwan National Park, hiking in the Himalayan foothills around Pokhara and seeing the sights in Kathmandu. The tour culminated with a scenic flight along the Himalayan ridge to where Everest towers above her neighbours, for so many years an impregnable fortress.As we flew back to the capital, I sat transfixed by the wall of mountains standing like a jagged row of shark’s teeth blocking the route to, until relatively recently, an impregnable and mysterious kingdom on which I had set my sights – Tibet.After 33 years of occupation, the Chinese authorities tentatively opened Tibet to tourism in 1983 and a trickle of intrepid travellers seeped in. The rules got stricter as time passed but they were not always strictly enforced until 2008. Tibetan unrest and eventually rioting in February and March of that year led to a crack down by the PSB (Public Security Bureau: Chinese police) on unauthorised travellers roaming the “roof of the world”. Tourists must now be accompanied by a guide and a private jeep with a driver. Added to this are the costly permits and the maximum visiting time of two weeks. My plan to cycle independently through the region began to seem like a financial and temporal impossibility. As I thought all this over from my seat in the westward-bound twin otter plane, the mountainous barrier before me suddenly seemed the least of my problems.

Rhinos in Chitwan National Park, Nepal

Saying a tearful goodbye to my family at the airport felt very much like leaving home all over again and afterwards I sought solace in a second-hand book shop. Scanning the tired, well-travelled tatters of books, I met a charming girl who I instantly insulted by taking for American and then Canadian before she laughingly informed me she lives in Kathmandu and is half Nepali, quarter Russian and quarter Danish. Ayesha’s misleading American accent comes from studying in Idaho. Over lunch she invited me to stay with her family for the rest of my time in the capital. I readily accepted and spent the next two weeks with her lovely family in their grand home, high on a hill on the city’s outskirts. The Lissanevitch family history is legend in Kathmandu since their grandfather Boris (whose frankly unbelievable life journey from pre-revolution Ukrainian cadet to world-famous ballet dancer to prolific tiger hunter is chronicled in the book “Tiger for Breakfast”) opened the first tourist hotel in the previously closed capital in the 1950s and the country never looked back as its bountiful tourism potential was unlocked.

In these two weeks I kept busy. A tortuously early start on New Year’s morning saw me mountain biking with my new friend’s Binod and Birendra (click here to see photos). I visited the medieval city of Bhaktapur where narrow cobbled lanes ramble down steep hills and Hindu temple complexes abound. I passed pleasant evenings playing games with Ayesha’s little brother and sister who are both Nepal number ones on the tennis court. However, mostly I was occupied with how to get into Tibet and how to survive the intense winter once there. Simply crossing the border alone was impossible. I asked many tour operators to sneak me in but all refused. I reluctantly resolved make a big detour by plane to China’s vast and remote northwest Xinjiang province and then ride south from the ancient Silk Road city of Kashgar, sneaking past the police and army into forbidden Tibet.

Guardian statues at the fire-tiered Nyatapola temple in Bhaktapur, Nepal

60ft statue of Mao in Kashgar, Xinjiang

With a two-stopover flight to the city of Urumqi booked, winter gear purchased and my bike boxed up, I sadly said goodbye to the Lissanevitches. A sly bribe saw my 75 per cent overweight baggage through check-in and a cloud-obscured flight over the Himalayas brought me to stopover one – Lhasa (the capital of Tibet) – where, maddeningly, I couldn’t disembark. I had hoped for a glimpse of the fabled city from the plane but the airport’s absurd 60-mile distance from town prevented that. After an impatient night in Chengdu airport during stopover two, I flew over Qinghai (a largely Tibetan province neighbouring Tibet itself and perched on the same high, mountainous plateau) gazing through the window at the roughly textured whiteness below. I began to feel daunted and, perhaps for the first time, took a realistic rather than romantic view of the task I had set myself. Cycling 2,000 miles through Tibet in winter; in winter. I started to panic as the plane neared landing in Urumqi. The pilot didn’t exactly allay my anxieties by cheerfully announcing the surface temperature (at midday under blue skies) as -33°C.Avoiding this kind of sudden transition from temperate Nepal to the frozen wastelands of northern China is exactly why I chose to travel by bike and I was deeply regretting the necessity of the flight. The plane touched down, I collected my bike box (largely shredded by Air China’s deft-handed baggage “throwers”) and stumbled, discombobulated, out of the airport. Urumqi’s road signs are in Chinese, Arabic, Russian and English. I rail freighted the battered box to Kashgar and booked a ‘hard-seat’ train ticket for the following day. The journey was a 32-hour trauma. The unforgiving seat was bearable but the Shanghai student next to me gave an unremitting lecture about the merits of Mao, the crimes of the Dalai Lama and China’s superiority over the slothful Western world. His English was impressive but, strangely, he struggled to comprehend simple phrases such as ‘human rights’ and ‘freedom of expression’.

Sack of seeds on sale in Kashgar's Sunday Market, Xinjiang

I couldn’t resist a few days in Kashgar. It is an almost mythic city for travellers. Repeatedly conquered by fresh waves of invaders, this well-preserved, Central Asian city is Islamic (as is most of Xinjiang) and was briefly capital of the First East Turkistan Republic before the Chinese invaded in 1934. Situated near the borders of Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan and India, it is peopled by the Uyghurs who speak a Turkic-based language and naturally appear distinctly Central Asian as opposed to Han Chinese. The large, modern Chinese structures in the city centre are presided over by a 60-foot tall statue of a waving Chairman Mao but the Old Town is still an evocative maze of narrow winding lanes where vendors flog traditional wares such as the tall, fur Uyghur cap which the men all wear in winter.The renowned Sunday Market was quite an experience with second-hand shoe sellers squashed up next to butchers maniacally hacking away at fresh carcasses with dirty cleavers. Everything imaginable is hawked and the stalls spilled over a huge area; down back alleys and along main streets.I rode out of Kashgar with an energy-sapping flu and wrapped up ridiculously against the mild -10°C. Soon sweating, I made my way south along a bumpy road and through a dreary, flat landscape. The only variation on the few shades of steely winter grey were the pallid-browns of stick-thin trees and the frosted-brown of turned earth awaiting spring and life. Everything was dead. A combination of this landscape, so devoid of life and beauty, flu, the cold, and perhaps because of riding alone for the first time in three months, left me feeling slightly depressed. On my first night, as the temperature plummeted, I pitched my tent alongside an ice lake. The frozen sweat in my clothes was chaffing and I discovered that my tent zip had broken. My routine was unpractised and clumsy. I hardly slept but passed the night with a miserable marathon of exaggerated shudders, coughing fits and self-pity.

Uninspiring winter landscape, Xinjiang

Shoe stall in Kashgar's Sunday Market, Xinjiang

In the morning I packed up wearily and with difficulty. My bulging panniers looked like they were about to disgorge all my belongings onto the road and I imagine I looked likely to do the same with my breakfast noodles. After a few miles, my hands and feet had no sensation at all. In a sudden childish tantrum I leapt off my bike, allowing it to crash onto the roadside, and began furiously stamping my feet and aggressively windmilling my arms, desperate to force some blood to my extremities. In doing so I managed to cuff myself hard on the side of my own head. I paused and was about to give an uncharacteristic shout of anger when the hilarity hit me harder than my forearm had. I broke into a chuckle which induced a warm spread of adrenalin leading me to laugh louder. It felt good and I urged more amused convulsions, only stopping when I caught the confused fright of an old man passing on a donkey-drawn cart, huddled against the weather in thin rags. My life suddenly wasn’t so bad.Over the next few days I found a more positive outlook and pushed on hoping the exercise would exorcise my illness. The bleak road saw occasional vehicles but mostly old men with bushy, greying beards sitting stoically on tilting wooden carts, flicking their donkeys harmlessly with thin sticks.

Dry crust of sandy soil on fringe of Taklamakan desert, Xinjiang

As I progressed south, the land gradually inclined and the mercury dropped. The oil on my chain thickened causing it to jam if I back pedalled and water froze solid in my thermos flask at night. Villages became fewer and further between and a few days from Kashgar I made the turning onto the 219 road which was to carry me 1500 miles to Lhasa. This was a momentous turning and the landscape changed accordingly. I was instantly out of the dull, wintry place that had so little pleased me. I was now crawling across the enticing emptiness of a desert. If it weren’t for the weak, thin sunlight it would appear to be warm. There was no moisture to freeze as I skirted along the western fringe of the vast Taklamakan desert. It stretched away on both sides of me, yellow and unyielding, while the assorted white shapes of summits of the Pamir Mountains hovered above the sandy haze in the far distance on my right. It felt novel to be simultaneously in China, headed for Tibet and gazing at mountains in Tajikistan.The tilt towards Tibet increased and I wore my Uyghur hat low over my eyes to mask my face as two trucks had already stopped and told me to turn back repeating “Police! Police!” I started hiding from the road when taking breaks and turning my face away when vehicles passed.The open desert ended and the road plunged into a valley, beginning to climb in earnest. The tarmac was replaced by mud and gravel covered in an inch or two of powder-fine dust. Of the few people I saw, more now appeared Tibetan than Uyghur. I made my first pass (3,300m) and was rewarded with a scenic revelation as I crested the climb. Ahead of me spread a jumbled morass of mountains, brown in the foreground and tall and white in the distance. I wondered how on earth a road could weave a way through this slowly raging sea of geology and thoroughly froze my fingers taking photographs. The descent was almost as slow as the climb, navigating numerous winding switchbacks and rattling over ruts while dodging the perilous rocks liberally strewn across the way. Regular stops to clap and shake my hands were necessary to have continued use of the brake levers; the pain during each thawing was excruciating. I noticed my fingers had gone a strange shade of orange each time I ungloved to rub them together.

Absorbing the view from first mountain pass, Xinjiang

When I neared the first checkpoint I hid my bike and spent the afternoon clambering around on the mountainside, hiding behind rocks, and armed with the strong zoom of my video camera. Having thoroughly scouted out the military base and the two roadblocks in the small town of Kudi, I pitched my tent out of sight of the road and set my alarm for 4am. The base lies at the foot of a narrow, steep-walled valley. On its left a tall fence runs down to a partially frozen river. Walking along the ice seemed a risky option as I couldn’t test its thickness first and the base overlooks the river. To the right, another fence climbs up the valley wall to an impossible height.

Excitement woke me early and I was just setting off when my watch beeped approvingly. I was shaking with anticipation as I put ‘plan A’ into action: walk my bike along the road and see if I can sneak quietly past the guard huts at the roadblocks. Feint starlight provided sufficient guidance as I approached the first red and white striped barrier. A flickering blue light was visible in the guard hut accompanied by the soft chatter of a television. I was wheeling my bike around the side when I heard a door open. Three soldiers walked out of the next building. I froze as they got into a car not twelve meters from me. Using the noisy cover of them starting a reluctant ignition, I dragged my bike off the road and crouched down next to it. They flicked their headlights on full beam and swung the car out onto the road, completely illuminating me for a frightening few seconds. My face throbbed with uncontrollable heartbeats. I would love to say that I focused on rock-like thoughts or put into practice some exotic environment-blending technique but the truth is that I held my breath and concentrated hard on not coughing or wetting myself. The car horn beeped impatiently a few feet from my head and the guard came out and raised the barrier. The large concrete counterweight narrowly avoided crushing me. The car went, the barrier dropped, the guard retired and I breathed again, thankful that I had remembered to wear black and put tape over the reflective surfaces on my bike and bags.

The checkpoint town of Kudi photographed from scouting escursion in hills, Xinjiang

The valley after the Kudi checkpoint, Xinjiang

I continued down the road and thirty yards ahead were four men sat around a small fire next to an army truck. Leaving my bike, I crept closer to see if there was any way past. As I neared, a man exited a building behind me and started walking towards the fire. With no choice, I flitted forward on tip toes and threw myself flat on the ground in the shadow of the truck. I wormed underneath it as he passed until I was only hidden by a large wheel. It took about ten terrifying minutes to extricate myself from this absurd situation. Throughout this adventure I was constantly fighting a violent outbreak of coughing and my throat grew increasingly dry until I couldn’t swallow. Having retrieved my bike, I found an alley leading to the right hand side of the valley. Following a goat path behind the buildings, I kicked a brute of a dog which had charged at me barking wildly. The dog retreated with a whimper and I came to the aforementioned fence. Feeling like James Bond, I took my Leatherman from my pocket and cut the bottom two wires. As I was shuffling underneath, the reality of the situation flooded my mind in a moment of chilling clarity. This was a Chinese military base, guarded with machine guns and protecting a sensitive area closed to foreigners. Here I was, at night, cutting my way through fences. Discovery could result in worse than just being turned back or arrested. Suddenly afraid, I dragged my bike through behind me and made my way forward as quickly and quietly as possible. Thirty minutes later and I found my way onto the road, mounted up and rode hurriedly away. At a safe distance, I couldn’t resist muttering under my breath “the name’s Walker. Charlie Walker.” However, I soon shattered this self-supposed (but non-existent) moment of cool by rushing down to the river and falling on my hands and knees on the ice to lap at the water like a dog, quenching my burning throat. I spluttered and finally erupted into a harsh volley of joyous coughs before gladly drinking again. I had passed supposedly the most difficult checkpoint on my Tibetan journey. To be continued...Hospitality, frostbite and arrest in part 2

Was due to enter Tibet a couple of years ago for a nomadic midwife training scheme I was representing, but due to some minor shenanigans pre the Chinese Olympics our agent contacted me to say we'd never get across the border. Now you tell me all I needed was a Swiss Army pen knife; I feel soooo inadequate...

Will e mail you seperately with a bourgoise update from the British Isles!

Reply

Johnny Walker

7/3/2011 11:51:14 am

Dear Charlie,
Another absolute cracker - wow wow wow - what really worried me was the possibility of being arrested by the police for cruelty to animals when you kicked that damn dog - the rest sounds really like a bit of a Sunday afternoon walk in the park!!
You think that you have got problems - well I tell you I have got to take my car back, for the second time, because the reversing camera is not working - now that is what I call DANGEROUS!
Thanks for continuing to open up parts of the world that Johnnie Walker Black Label haven't and couldn't reach.
Have fun and go get it Charlie.
Lots of love,
Johnny x

I'm sure waking up at -40C in the mountains is hell at the time but from an office in the sun-baked Middle East, it sounds like bliss.

Reply

Simon

8/3/2011 03:29:39 am

Riveting stuff Charlie and relieved you got through safely. Will make for good conversation with your ma and pa this Saturday evening!

All the very best

Simon

Reply

Kabita

8/3/2011 05:26:48 am

So worried about u.Take care.Tough man

Reply

Ian Fowler

8/3/2011 07:24:43 am

Charlie,

Have'nt heard from you since Scandanavia and delighted to see how far you have travelled safely. Great that your family were with you and I will catch up with them. Keep safe and we look forward to reading the book! (How many volumes??!!) Ian

Reply

morella cottam

15/3/2011 05:13:46 am

Well done, Charlie, what an amazing adventure, we're full of admiration. You will have to give a talk at the RGS when you get back. lots of love from us all, Morella

Reply

Charlotte

22/3/2011 10:50:58 am

Charlie, I love your blogs because they are full of humour, drama, and in this case especially, suspense. You give the best account I know of what it is like to travel in this way and all I can do is say wow, and hope that you stay safe, happy, and full of food. I'll be waiting for the book on your return...
Take care,
CK x

Reply

Cousin Henry.

23/3/2011 07:46:03 am

Dear Charlie,

A riveting read indeed. Wow! That's quite some adventure you are having - sneaking through check-points and all.
I'm impressed by your strong determination to complete this odyssey come what may, and trust that it will give you strength in the hard times and bring you gracefully to the final goal.
Im thoroughly enjoying the blogs and you have my full respect - 'Licence to thrill' indeed.
All very well about the book, but what about the film ?? -- 'A Walker goes bicycling'?
Keep going brave man, I'm rooting for you.
Love 'n courage.
Cousin H.